To Hospital, or Not to Hospital

It was when I was wrist-deep in my own watery shit that I finally asked myself that all-important question: “Why am I doing this?”

Perhaps it was from sheer stubbornness or it could have been simply that that was what I had been asked to do, but most likely I was complying out of a sense that I had already come this far and that I may as well see it through.

Before arriving in Bangkok from Katmandu, I had lived through three terrifying days of a debilitating illness that had kept me either bedridden or running for the toilet. Because I had also recently travelled to a few out of the way places where exotic diseases can make their way into the body, I was urged by family and friends to seek medical assistance, get all the necessary tests run, and just be sure that I wasn’t carrying around some kind of nasty pathogen. But by the time I arrived in Bangkok my appetite was returning, I was able to walk in a semi-straight line, and I was beginning to get my strength back.

Despite being on the mend, I had made the mental commitment to do my due diligence and visit a hospital where I could have tests run and be absolutely sure. When I asked at the hotel reception about hospitals in the area, the nearest was the Mission Hospital located about 3 kilometres away from where I was staying. They asked if I would like for them to call me a taxi which I declined stating that I would be happy to walk. Even as I was walking to the hospital in the 35-degree tropical heat of midday, I thought to myself that what I was doing was not in keeping with the actions of a sick individual.

I was directed to the patient intake area and was asked a series of questions like whether or not I had been suffering from any kind of acute respiratory illness and if I had recently visited Wuhan, China. I was handed a surgical mask, told to keep it on while I was in the hospital, and reminded to sanitize my hands. I met with a doctor who asked the same questions and then wrote up the order to have a blood draw. I went to the lab where they took blood and then the attendant handed me a cup and a set of surgical gloves and requested that I supply a sample.

For the last four days, providing that sample would have been a piece of cake. Just the sight of a toilet would have set everything in motion. But now, with a diagnosis on the line, there was no activity. Again, I couldn’t help but think that at this point nothing I was putting myself through was in line with the actions of a sick individual. I humbly returned from the washroom to the lab and explained that I was unable to provide a sample. I was instructed to leave the hospital and return with a sample at my leisure only to make sure that I returned within the hour after producing it.

In Thailand, there is no shortage of places to eat that serve food cooked to bowel-loosening spice levels and of questionable cleanliness that I just naturally assumed that serving up a sample would be a breeze. There is nothing quite like Thai food. It is a food-lover’s paradise replete with exotic flavours and spices and cooking techniques that flesh out the tastiest elements of each ingredient. After not eating for four days, I showed the diners at the street stalls that line the outside of Bangkok’s modern shopping malls what pigging out looks like. Tom Yum, papaya salad, fried dumplings, spring rolls, curries, noodles, stir-fried veggies, roasted meats, everything went in and I didn’t hold back. I trudged back to my hotel sweating from having gorged myself and now all there was left to do was wait.

I rolled around in my air-conditioned room for hours watching Netflix shows, writing in my journal, and reading my book. I felt invincible, and nothing would come. The day began to wane and I thought to myself, “Oh hell, no! This is happening today!” I shuffled over to the toilet and just tried to relax. Nothing. This was not how a sick man feels. It was time to force something.

The doctors and nurses were heading home for the day when I arrived back at the hospital with what I described to the lab technician as: “the best I could do.” I had walked across town to the hospital once again and covered almost 10 kilometres on foot for the whole day. These were not the actions of a sick individual.

I met with a doctor who informed me that my lab results all turned up negative. And yes, for good measure, I walked back across town once again to my hotel and had a nice meal to close out my day – not the actions of a sick man.